


the weight of a heart

by trashcan



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Ableism, Alive Marco Bott, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Corrupt Military Police, M/M, Prostitution, less than enthusiastic consent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-09 16:27:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1148191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcan/pseuds/trashcan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Marco never asked where the money came from, and Jean never told him.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>(AU where Marco survived Trost but with heavy injuries, Jean is in the MP and prostitutes himself to corrupt officers to support his care)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written for the snkkink meme, prompt here: http://snkkink.dreamwidth.org/3666.html?thread=5715282#cmt5715282

Jean had always known the Military Police were corrupt, hell, he had even counted on it in anticipation of his rich, cushy life in the inner walls. But he hadn't been prepared for this. He supposed he should be glad, really, that there were so many perverts among the Police. He was in need of money and they were in need of, well. It was a transaction that worked.  
  
Jean thought he was already cynical, but it turned out he had a lot to learn.  
  
About two months ago, Hitch had been the one to introduce him to this side of the Military Police. He had been whining to her all day about how much rent was in the inner walls, how a cadet's salary could barely pay for the smallest cell in the nicer part of town.  
  
“Then live in the barracks like the rest of us,” Hitch had rolled her eyes at him. Her constant state of indifference, whether feigned or not, made her surprisingly easy to talk to. “Oh right, you have the crippled boyfriend to keep.”  
  
Despite (or maybe because of) her utter lack of tact, Jean rather liked Hitch. He felt she was something of a kindred soul. And maybe she felt the same way, because then she had leaned in to whisper in Jean's ear.  
  
“See that officer there? That's Captain Sampson Muller. I know for a fact that he has certain, ah, _hobbies_ involving his subordinates that he's willing to pay for. He's been staring at your ass the entire morning, so I think your chances are pretty good with him. You're welcome.”  
  
Hitch had smirked and clapped Jean on the shoulder, leaving him speechless and more than a little horrified.  
  
Prostitute himself to his superior officers? Jean had forced himself to think through his initial repugnance. Additional income would certainly help with the rent. And Marco, while no longer at immediate risk for infection or the like, needed a nurse's care to learn how to be functional (as much as Jean hated that word in relation to Marco) again. Marco still woke up sometimes in the middle of the night, drenched with sweat and babbling about phantom pains.  
  
Jean had been perfectly fine with proclaiming his shameless desire to enter the inner walls back in his trainee days. He had been a whore in that sense, he supposed. Would this really be that much worse? Give his own body, in exchange for Marco's safety and health (and hopefully happiness)?  
  
Having reached a conclusion, Jean had carefully looked over at Captain Muller until their eyes met. He had been taken aback by the heated, unabashed lust in the captain's eyes, but he hadn't looked away. Very slowly and deliberately, Jean had darted his tongue out to lick at his suddenly dry lips, and Muller visibly swallowed hard in response.  
  
That night, he met Jean in a storehouse and left him with a sore body and enough money for a week of Marco's physical therapy.  
  
The meetings with Captain Sampson Muller had become a regular occurrence since then. Jean moved with Marco to a nice apartment, the kind of place he had dreamed about while growing up in cramped squalor back in Trost. They had running water – a private bathroom even, for Marco to shower without unwelcome curious eyes – a kitchen with an oven that could heat the whole apartment (cold would aggravate the pain in Marco's bones), and a location nestled securely in a quiet neighborhood. Marco's physical therapist came twice a week, and was within walking distance if he needed her urgently.  
  
Marco never asked where the money came from, and Jean never told him.  
  
Jean dreaded the day Captain Muller would grow bored of him, but for now at least, that day seemed far off in the distance. Today, Jean had barely finished his patrol before he found himself pulled into an empty meeting room and thrown bodily onto the ground.  
  
He didn't get up, just lay prone where he had fallen and kept his eyes on the ground. He was sure to let out a breathy whimper when Muller's boot hooked under his chin. By now he had learned what Muller liked, and he was smart enough to give it to him. He had been getting more generous with his compensation lately, so Jean was probably doing something right.  
  
Muller dragged the toe of his boot from Jean's jaw up to his lips. Without saying a word, Jean closed his eyes and slid his tongue out to lick the polished black leather. Muller let him continue for a while, before withdrawing his boot and giving Jean a sharp kick to his ribs. Jean gave a pained gasp, loud enough for Muller to hear.  
  
“Strip and lean over the desk, whore,” Muller commanded with another kick to Jean's side. Jean complied quickly, shedding his clothes on the way over to the desk. He shivered at the cold wood against his skin.  
  
Muller ran still-gloved fingers over old bruises on Jean's back. He dug in with his nails at a spot under Jean's shoulderblades, drawing a hiss of pain. “My marks are still on you. How does it feel, knowing that I own you?”  
  
Fuck, he was in a talkative mood today. Jean preferred when he kept his mouth shut and just got it over with quickly, but he forced himself to play along.  
  
“Please, sir,” he made his voice high-pitched and desperate.  
  
“Please what?”  
  
It was a good thing Muller couldn't see him roll his eyes when his face was pressed against the desk. This script was so damn predictable. “Please... fuck me.”  
  
“Prepare yourself first,” and Muller poured lube onto Jean's hand. Grimacing into the desk, Jean reached around to his ass and began fingering himself. Without turning his head around, he heard the sound of Muller undoing his belt, followed by his pants dropping to the floor.  
  
Jean ground his hips onto the desk, forcing himself into hardness from the friction and his own fingers up his ass. Muller seemed in the mood for a show first, judging by the wet slapping sounds of fist over dick from behind him.  
  
“Yeah, that's right,” grunted Muller, voice heated. “You ready for my cock?”  
  
“Please sir, I want your cock inside of me,” Jean responded, gyrating his hips in the most lewd manner he could. He twisted around to look as seductively as possible at Muller. “Please, fuck me!”  
  
“Are you trying to give _me_ orders, you little slut?” Muller picked up his belt from the ground. “I think you need to remember your place.”  
  
Jean braced himself for the sting, but it still hurt like hell when Muller brought the belt down onto his ass. He yelped and forced himself to stick his ass out further, against his body's will. At least Muller was holding onto the buckled end this time. Muller swung down again and again, picking up a fast tempo. Jean could see his own tears dripping onto the surface of the desk.  
  
“Learned your lesson yet?” Miller panted, with a particularly hard smack.  
  
“Please, sir,” Jean sobbed. “I'm sorry, sir.”  
  
“All right then, since your ass is so nice and red now,” and Muller lined up his cock to Jean's hole and pushed in to the base in one smooth motion. Jean let the breath be knocked out of him and Muller grabbed both his wrists, pinning them on the desk. His pace was hard and fast. At this point Jean didn't have to fake his whimpers of pain, which only served to inflame Muller more.  
  
Muller relinquished his grip on one of Jean's wrists and moved his hand to Jean's chest to pinch at a nipple. Jean resented the jolt of arousal it sent coursing down through his gut, but he rode it out all the same – Muller liked watching him come. He cried out with each hard thrust into his ass, loud enough so Muller could hear over the slap of flesh on flesh.  
  
He focused on the friction of his own cock against the desk, forcing himself to come that much closer to orgasm. He thought of Marco, Marco who would be safe here in the inner walls because of this, Marco's smiles that had become so rare but all the more precious for it –  
  
He came with a sob, with Muller's hand fisted in his hair and pressing the side of his face into the desk, his ass tightening around Muller's cock buried deep inside him as he spurted into Muller's waiting other hand. Muller responded by pounding harder into Jean's limp and exhausted body. It was much too long before he finally came with a strangled grunt, releasing his load into Jean's ass. Jean felt the viscous heat dribble down his thighs as he pulled out.  
  
“You're such a naughty boy,” Muller laughed, yanking Jean around and upright. “You came all over my hand. I think you should clean it up,” and he thrust his hand full of Jean's cum into his face.  
  
“Yes, sir,” Jean hastened to lick it away. It was unpleasant, to say the least, but hardly the worst thing Muller had asked of him. He curled his tongue around the fingers in his mouth, hollowing his cheeks to suck his hand clean.  
  
“Damn, Kirschstein, seeing that makes me want to go for a second round,” Muller smirked. Jean only looked up at him through half-lidded eyes and continued his ministrations. As degrading as it was, a second round meant more pay. “Sadly, I've got a meeting – in this very room, in fact. But be ready for me tomorrow.”  
  
Jean let his fingers slide away from his lips. “Yes, sir.”  
  
Muller patted Jean on the cheek in a mockery of affection. “Good boy.” He bent over to pull his pants back up. Before he looped his belt back on, he raised it above Jean's face. Jean flinched instinctively, and Muller gave a dark chuckle, stroking along Jean's jawline with the belt.  
  
“Same time tomorrow, Kirschstein,” Muller called over his back, fully dressed and leaving. He tossed a handful of coins onto the ground behind him and was gone without another word.  
  
Jean winced and knelt to collect the money. He ignored the stinging on his ass, the drying sticky mess between his thighs. Marco had said he missed oranges, didn't he? Oranges were expensive, but today Jean would buy as many as he could carry home.  
  
-  
  
Jean had taken to snuffing out the lights before he got into bed.  
  
The first time, Marco thought nothing of it. Even in the inner walls, gas was still expensive and it made sense to conserve it whenever possible. But that seemingly innocuous pinch of the lamp happened a second time, and a third, and eventually Marco was forced to reach the obvious conclusion he had been trying to deny.  
  
He should have been grateful that Jean was willing to touch him at all, even if he couldn't stand to look at him anymore. Marco was quite the sight even clothed: the ugly scars ran from his scalp all the way down to his hipbone, so he tried to crush the growing sense of what felt like resentment as Jean doused the light and wrapped his arms around his neck.  
  
“Were the oranges good?” he whispered into his ear.  
  
“They were,” and the words had barely left Marco's lips before Jean leaned in to kiss him.  
  
Marco didn't say anything, just accepted the kiss and let Jean gently sit him down on the bed. Jean's fingers trailed lightly down the scarred side of his face in the dark. Marco twisted away, throat suddenly tight.  
  
“Hey, come here,” Jean whispered, sliding his bare legs over Marco's lap so that he was straddling him. He pressed his forehead against his as he worked the buttons of Marco's shirt open. “I've been waiting for this all day,” he said with a light laugh. Truth be told, so had Marco. Even knowing what a burden he must be to Jean, how Jean couldn't even stand to look at him in the light, Marco still wanted this.  
  
Jean kissed down the unscarred side of Marco's neck (Marco was careful to only allow him access to the left) until he was nipping at Marco's collarbone. The familiar warmth of lust bloomed in Marco's stomach, and he let himself be washed away in sensation. He rested his single hand in Jean's soft hair.  
  
That was strange. Jean's hair was slightly damp, but smelled fresh, like he had just washed it. Yet Marco hadn't seen him use their shower (a private bathroom in their apartment that Marco was thankful for) since coming home.  
  
It was probably nothing, Marco chided himself. Jean had probably just been sweaty and tired after work and showered at the barracks. He let the absent thought slip from his mind as Jean worked his way down to his cock.  
  
Marco inhaled sharply and threw his head back, throwing his arm behind him for support. Jean typically liked to tease him a bit first, but there was something urgent about his movements tonight. He greedily wrapped his lips around Marco's cock, taking him in deep almost too quickly.  
  
Marco let out a half-choked sound and fisted his hand in the sheets behind him. He wouldn't last long like this, not with Jean moaning around his cock and sending vibrations from his throat down into Marco's very core. Just as he was about to protest, Jean pulled away. With his one eye, Marco could barely make out a fuzzy outline of his face in the pale moonlight that streamed in through their window.  
  
“Marco, I want you,” Jean breathed in the darkness, climbing back onto Marco's lap. “I want you so bad,” and even though Marco had trouble believing it, Jean spread his legs and slowly lowered himself onto his erection.  
  
Distantly, Marco wondered how Jean had prepared himself so quickly. He had heard the pop of the cap of lube, but surely he hadn't spent enough time to be this stretched out already. But Jean placed his hands on Marco's shoulders (or at least what was left of his shoulder on his right side) and started moving, and Marco was soon lost.  
  
He could feel his arm trembling behind him, struggling to support his weight as Jean fucked himself on his cock.  
  
“Lie back,” Jean gasped. He must have noticed the spasms in Marco's left shoulder beneath his warm palms. “Let me take care of you,” and Marco felt himself being eased onto his back, still buried deep inside Jean.  
  
This position was much easier on his arm and his back, but Marco desperately wanted to do more, to touch – Jean was taking him in deep and hard, and it was so much. He reached up, groping blindly in the darkness to try and find Jean. The backs of his fingers brushed against what felt like Jean's hipbone, and Marco dug his thumb into the groove between flesh and taut muscle, clinging to him like an anchor. He felt oddly helpless, supine on the bed with Jean's weight on his middle and only his hand on his hip in return.  
  
Jean was breathing hard above him, sobbing even. “Marco,” he cried, “Marco,” saying his name again and again, like a mantra. “I love you, I love you,” and even one-eyed, Marco caught the glint of moonlight reflected in the tear tracks that spilled over Jean's sharp cheekbones.

-

The pattern of Marco's days fell into monotony. He stayed in the apartment most of the time, only leaving to go to market and buy food and other necessities. He kept himself occupied with mundane tasks, cleaning and cooking as best he could with one arm. Anything to get his mind off the helpless anger that always lurked in the shadows of his mind.  
  
Twice a week, Clara came over for physical therapy, which usually translated into Marco trying and failing not to be frustrated at his inability to do anything as well with his left arm as he had with his right. They were currently working on getting Marco to be able to write with his left hand, and it was a slow and arduous process to fight the urge to give up and pick the pen up with a hand he no longer had.  
  
“Don't clench your fist so hard, Marco,” Clara said, endlessly patient. She reminded Marco of Mina Carolina, with her parted dark hair and cheerful demeanor. She had been one of the first to fall.  
  
“I'm trying,” he responded, immediately sorry for sounding so short with her. But if Clara noticed, she didn't react.  
  
“You can't expect to be able to do it as well right away,” she went on, voice still bright. “It will take time. But just like recovery, it will come eventually.”  
  
What she didn't say, Marco thought darkly, was that recovery left him a shell of what he had been. His right side had been declared “recovered,” and it was still a mass of ugly gnarled skin from the battlefield cauterization, gouged out missing flesh that would never lose its raw pinkness.  
  
He sighed, rubbing out the cramp in the heel of his hand on his leg. “I think that's enough for today.”  
  
“But Marco, we haven't even been at it for an hour. Are you sure you don't want to try a little longer? You wanted to try looking for a clerical job within the month, didn't you?”  
  
“I'm tired,” he said, and it was the truth. He was damn tired of being coddled, of struggling with the most basic of tasks, of having only the hope of writing ledgers for whatever store would take a one-armed, one-eyed clerk to look forward to.  
  
Clara looked a bit deflated, but quickly bounced back. “Would you like me to rub out your shoulder instead, then?”  
  
Marco nodded, and soon Clara's capable hands on his tensed remains of a right shoulder drove at least some of the writing-induced frustration from his mind. He let his thoughts wander to Jean. He had been coming home late more frequently, always bringing what Marco was starting to see as small bribes. It had been a bottle of vine yesterday, oranges the day before.  
  
Maybe Jean noticed it too, the growing distance between them. When was the last time they had gotten to just talk? Sometimes it felt like Jean only came home to fuck and sleep, and was off to work in the morning before Marco even woke up. He missed him, missed the easy camaraderie they once shared, missed having Jean look at him without that weird mix of pity and protectiveness in his eyes.  
  
“Feeling all right, Marco?” Clara's hands slowed. Marco forced a smile for her; she put up with enough of his crap already.  
  
“Better now. Thanks, Clara,” and he walked her to the door.  
  
“Have a good afternoon. And I'll be sure to keep an ear out for any clerk positions available!”  
  
He waved at Clara until she left, though a dull anxiety settled in his gut at the reminder of the hypothetical desk job. He had tried, at first, to find something he could do. He didn't want Jean to have to keep him like a pet, or a mistress. But everyone had looked first at his missing arm, then at the scars on his face and his missing eye, and Marco felt sick no matter whether their reactions were pity or disgust. He gave up searching after a while. He didn't like to be around people as much anymore as it was.  
  
He stood on the balcony, lost in his thoughts.  
  
“Ugh, there he is. One arm and a missing eye. What good's a man like that anymore?”  
  
“It would have been kinder to let the Titans finish him.”  
  
A cold weight seized Marco's gut as he swiveled around to the source of the voices. His neighbors were glaring at him from their respective balcony three rooms over.  
  
“Do you have something you want to say to me?” he said, keeping his tone neutral despite the pounding of his pulse in his throat.  
  
“Aye, I do,” the wife countered, crossing her arms. “It's not right, you clinging to that Jean Kirschstein. A young man as handsome as that, and in the Police no less, and shackled to a cripple like you. He should be looking for a pretty young wife, someone like my daughter.”  
  
“Dear, please,” her husband gave a slightly apologetic look to Marco, though Marco couldn't find it in himself to be grateful. “You're causing a scene.”  
  
“No, I don't care. I should make a scene! It's just wrong. You're a very selfish man, to deny Jean a real future by keeping him stuck with you.”  
  
At this point her husband finally succeeded in coaxing her back indoors, but Marco didn't notice. Dimly he realized he was shaking, and his knuckles were white against the railing.  
  
She was right. It would have been better if he had died in Trost. Then Jean wouldn't be saddled with him, bound by the obligation of their past happiness from pursuing the future he deserved. And she was right about him being selfish too, because Marco didn't want to let Jean go, even if it meant he was holding him back.  
  
He hated himself for it, but he needed Jean. Even if Jean only wanted to touch him with the lights off, even if it meant living helpless and dependent like a kept woman, he couldn't let him go. His world after Trost had narrowed, resentment and pain making him push everyone else away but the one person he knew would not give up on him.  
  
But he was losing Jean, bit by bit, and the thought put as much fear in him as did any Titan.


	2. Chapter 2

Jean's rounds for the day had been finished, but he couldn't leave the barracks just yet. He had an appointment to keep, after all, and as much as he dreaded letting Muller put his hands on him two days in a row, he needed the money.  
  
He reached the same meeting room from yesterday, stopping in confusion when he heard the sound of voices in conversation from within. He hadn't gotten the time wrong, had he?  
  
As if to answer his question, the door swung open and Muller poked his bearded face out. His face spread into a lewd grin when he spotted Jean.  
  
“There you are,” Muller impatiently dragged Jean in with a rough hand on his arm, flinging him onto the floor and locking the door behind him.  
  
“Oh, you're right, he is a pretty one,” an unfamiliar voice said from above him. Against how Muller had trained him, Jean looked up in surprise. He had seen this man around a few times before – Corporal Kaufman or something?  
  
“We're going to have some fun with you today, Jean,” Muller laughed, already undoing his belts. “Now strip.”  
  
Jean did so quickly, despite the sudden twinge of dread in his gut. Something about having another spectator made this go from uncomfortable to excruciating, especially as Kaufman didn't bother to disguise the sheer lust in his eyes.  
  
Soon he was naked and shivering in the cold air of the room, the two still fully-clothed men standing on either side of him.  
  
“Touch yourself,” Kaufman commanded. “Show me how much of a whore you are.”  
  
Jean made himself obey, let his mind wander back into its usual hiding place as he let his body do their bidding. He fondled a nipple with one hand and stroked his cock into hardness with the other, closing his eyes against Kaufman and Muller's intense scrutiny. His knees shook with the effort of standing under such humiliation.  
  
An abrupt slap from Muller interrupted him. “Don't close your eyes. And we never gave you permission to touch your cock. I want you to look at me as you finger yourself.”  
  
Kaufman was quick with the bottle of lube, and squirted a generous amount onto Jean's bare ass. Jean removed the hand from his reluctantly half-hard cock to reach behind him, spreading the lube from his asscheeks to his entrance. He opened himself up with practiced fingers, wincing at the obscene squelch of liquid against skin as he scissored himself.  
  
He hadn't yet finished when Kaufman started rutting up against him with his still-clothed cock. The rasp of the fabric of his pants stung against Jean's bare skin.  
  
“Damn, I want him now,” Kaufman grunted, batting Jean's hand aside and grinding his erection over the cleft of Jean's ass.  
  
“Be my guest,” Muller smirked, pants around his ankles as he started to jerk himself off. “He'll be here all evening if we want him to. He's a good boy like that.”  
  
Without ceremony Kaufman shed his own pants, yanked both of Jean's wrists and pinned them against his back. He pushed him face down against the same desk that Muller had just fucked him on yesterday.  
  
Shit, he hadn't prepared himself enough yet for it not to be painful. Jean mentally braced himself but he still wasn't ready for the sharp friction of Kaufman forcing his cock in with one fast motion.  
  
He cried out in agony – Kaufman was considerably bigger than Muller and would have been a lot to take in even with adequate preparation. Like this it was nigh unbearable. Jean felt himself tremble as Kaufman slowly pulled out, not quite all the way, and slam back in with even greater force. The pace he set was brutal, and Jean wondered wildly if he would break.  
  
“Please,” he found himself begging, to his horror, “it's too hard, it's too much-”  
  
“Yeah, you like that don't you, you little slut,” Kaufman huffed in response, showing no sign of letting up. He was a heavy and well-built man, and he was pressing all his weight into pinning Jean's hands onto his back, squeezing the very air out of his chest. Jean couldn't even find the breath to protest to the contrary if he wanted to.  
  
But he couldn't let himself cry out for them to stop. Surely Muller's friend would contribute a good amount to his pay, and Jean couldn't pass that up. He thought of Marco, as he always did in these moments of necessity, letting the memory of their time together close the doors to his mind as he let his body be taken.  
  
He surrendered to the in and out motion of Kaufman's brutal thrusts, allowing his body to react as it would. The heat building in him was nothing like the warmth that he felt with Marco, or so he told himself. It was just a reaction of his body. Even if he cried out, made humiliating, wretched sounds with his voice, it meant nothing when it wasn't Marco's name on his lips. He said it to himself over and over, and he was on the verge of believing it until Muller was pressing his cock against his parted lips, standing on the other side of the desk.  
  
“Gonna spitroast you, gonna fill you up with cock on both ends, stuff you full just the way you like it,” Muller was saying above his head, grabbing Jean by the hair and forcing his cock deep into his throat. Jean almost instinctively swallowed against his gag reflex, and for a moment felt such intense shame it dizzied him. What did it say about him, that he didn't even have to think anymore about how to take Muller's cock? He had told himself he was just playing a part, but suddenly it felt all too real.  
  
It got worse when Muller started moving. He couldn't focus on Marco's face in his mind, not when so much of his body was being taken like this, vulnerable, open, exposed. Kaufman's weight still crushed him against the desk. It was just one more person: it shouldn't have made such a difference, but Jean couldn't retreat to the safe room in his mind. He couldn't recall Marco's warm scent when all he could breathe was Muller's strong musk and sweat and sex.  
  
Tears sprang unbidden to his eyes, and Jean knew it wasn't just from the pain of Muller thrusting too deep into his throat. He was trapped in this terrible moment, and he had no right to ask them to stop. He had to make at least this much of a sacrifice for Marco. And it wasn't even that much of a sacrifice, was it? His traitorous body seemed to be enjoying it, anyway, as Kaufman's rough thrusts finally drove into his prostate.  
  
He moaned wretchedly around Muller's cock, and predictably that only made Muller fuck his mouth harder. Muller's pace increased, and Jean had sucked him off enough times by now to know that he was coming soon, and that he would expect Jean to drink every last drop.  
  
Large hands fisted in his hair, and the tears that had been welling up in Jean's eyes overflowed as Muller shot his load with a final hard thrust. He clenched his eyes shut, ignoring the hot tracks that ran down his cheeks as he forced himself to open his throat and swallow around his softening cock. The heat sliding down through his chest felt like a violation from the inside out.  
  
Muller pulled out and patted Jean on the cheek in a mockery of affection. “Such a good boy, you drank me so dry,” he cooed, wiping away the tears with a thumb. “Now open those pretty eyes. I wanna see your face when the good corporal comes into your ass.”  
  
“Don't rush me,” Kaufman grunted, while Jean prayed that he would finish soon.  
  
“Damn, you do have stamina,” Muller smirked, still idly stroking Jean's cheek. Somehow this gesture felt like even worse of a violation than his cum sliding down Jean's throat. Jean could feel the hot prickle of a blush burn on his skin beneath Muller's fingers.  
  
“Does his cock feel good in you, Jean?” Muller moved his thumb down to toy with Jean's bruised and slack lips. His fingertips were agonizingly coarse against his flushed skin. “Tell me how it feels to be pounded like that. Tell me,” and his grip on his face became cruel, nails digging into the soft skin of Jean's cheek.  
  
“Yes,” Jean choked out, voice hoarse and raw, “it's good, so good inside me,” and the words were not as much of a lie as he wished they were. Now that Kaufman was hitting his sweet spot, the friction sent oily slick waves of pleasure coursing through his veins, curling his toes against the floor.  
  
“But I know you want it harder,” Muller let his hand go gentle again, though he kept his thumb pressed against Jean's lower lip. “Tell Corporal Kaufman to fuck you harder, like the filthy little whore you are.”  
  
“F-fuck me,” Jean sobbed, “Corporal, please give me your cock, fuck me harder-”  
  
The breath was literally knocked out of him as Kaufman obliged with gusto, pounding Jean even more viciously than he had before. He cried out again and again, powerless to stop his own voice from humiliating himself with the sheer desperation in it.  
  
Jean almost wept with relief when Kaufman finally came deep into his ass and pulled out. Even the obscene feeling of cum leaking out and cooling between his thighs was preferable.  
  
“Oh, would you look at that,” Kaufman said after he caught his breath. “Our fucktoy's still hard.”  
  
To Jean's horror, he was right. The two men had paid no attention to his own cock, and his body was still aching for more.  
  
“Let's be nice to him, he's been such a good boy.” Muller ran his hands through Jean's mussed hair. Jean refused to let himself compare it to Marco's gentle touch. “We'll let him come as a reward for taking our cocks so well.”  
  
Without another word Kaufman pulled Jean by the neck upwards into a standing position. His knees trembled, but managed to hold. Kaufman slid his fingers easily back into his ass. With his free hand, he grabbed both of Jean's wrists and held them above his bowed head.  
  
“Can he come just like this, without touching his dick, do you think?” Kaufman's breath was indecently hot against Jean's ear, and he forced himself to stay in place and not angle away.  
  
“We can certainly try,” Muller replied with a leer, leaning forward to rub at Jean's peaked nipples. Jean arched into the touch with a whimper, painfully close to the edge. He just wanted to get it over with so he could collect his pay and go home to Marco.  
  
He let them work him up, focused on letting the heat building in his belly overwhelm him, ignored the tears that were threatening to escape a second time. Kaufman's fingers were driving home, and Jean did nothing to prevent his body from rutting backward and fucking himself onto them. He was fairly sure he was sobbing as Muller tormented his chest and throat with hands and mouth, but everything was a haze of lust and misery at that point. He sagged in Kaufman's iron grip, knees finally giving out, staying upright only by hanging from the hands keeping his wrists in the air.  
  
“You have such a filthy body, Jean,” Kaufman rumbled from behind him, and embarrassingly enough, that did it for him. At long last, he was able to ride out the wave of pressure and heat, and he came with a broken cry.  
  
The two men let him fall boneless and limp to the floor, left to lie in his own drying cum as they cleaned themselves off with a towel that Muller had thoughtfully brought.  
  
“That was fun,” remarked Kaufman cheerily to Muller. “We'll have to bring him to that party later this month.”  
  
“Oh, rest assured we will. I'm sure Jean's schedule will permit?”  
  
Jean nodded weakly from the ground.  
  
“Very well,” With a crooked smile, Muller tossed an impressively heavy pouch next to Jean. “Until next time, then,” and the two officers made their exit.  
  
Jean curled into a ball and cradled the money against his chest, refusing to let himself break down and weep.  
  
-

  
The sun had long since set by the time Jean got home. He wasn't sure how long he stood in the barracks shower, but even though he was sure he had surpassed the allotted time, he still felt far from clean.  
  
Marco was in the kitchen, with a bowl of stew that had long since gone cold waiting on the table for Jean.  
  
“You're home late,” Marco said by way of greeting, and Jean couldn't hold back his wince.  
  
“Sorry, some officers wanted to meet with me,” and it wasn't a lie, not really, but he hated that he couldn't be honest with Marco, of all people.  
  
Marco just nodded, expression unreadable beneath the eyepatch. “I made stew with the pork you brought home yesterday.” He pushed the bowl across the table to Jean. “Do you want me to heat it up for you?”  
  
“No, it's fine,” Jean mumbled, and hastily ate for lack of anything else to say. He hated the long silences that stretched out between them these days. It had once been so easy to talk to Marco – what had happened for every word to make Jean feel like he was walking on thin ice?  
  
“You don't have to keep buying so much meat,” Marco said as he watched Jean eat. “It can't be cheap.”  
  
Carefully, Jean continued chewing, not letting his hands shake with the sudden fear that sent more cold than was just from the stew sliding through his gut. He swallowed as casually as he could. “It's fine. Isn't this the whole point of us living in the inner city? A bit of meat doesn't put too big a dent in my paycheck.”  
  
“If you say so,” but there was something dubious in Marco's tone. That too was new, had rarely ever been heard before Trost. Marco had always been honest with him, almost painfully so, voicing his doubts whenever he had them.  
  
Jean picked at the dregs of his meal, scraping his spoon thoughtlessly against the bottom of the bowl. The clink of metal on ceramic was dreadfully loud in the otherwise silent house. He knew Marco hated it when he did that (plenty of times in the mess hall Marco had grabbed his wrist to stop him, and Jean had made a game of continuing to scrape, until they were both laughing and wrestling on the ground, bowl and spoon long forgotten), but Marco wasn't saying anything now, just sat there with his mouth drawn and brow furrowed.  
  
Jean stopped himself, forced his hand to still and set the spoon down. He searched desperately for something to say. “How was your day?” He hated the words as soon as they left his mouth. They were so utterly impersonal, something one stranger would say to another. He didn't want Marco to be a stranger.  
  
Marco sighed. “All right, I guess. Clara came over today, that was about it. Oh, and I had a chat with the neighbors,” but then his face darkened, and he bit his lip as if to prevent himself from saying something.  
  
“What did they say?”  
  
Marco idly drummed his fingers on the table, a nervous habit of his that had continued despite losing the arm he used to do it with. “Just the usual, about how you're wasted on me and how a handsome young policeman like you should marry their pretty young daughter instead of being shacked up with a cripple.” He said the words with a smirk, but his face was tight.  
  
Jean's chest ached with sadness even as he felt a flare of rage towards the neighbors in question. “Marco, you know that's not true.” Marco gave a kind of half-shrug that wasn't an affirmative. Jean laid his hand over his and looked straight into his remaining eye. “Those assholes had no right to say that bullshit. I’m going to give them a talking to, count on it.”  
  
“That's hardly necessary,” Marco replied, but the tense corners of his mouth had softened at least a bit. He broke their eye contact and cast his eyes down. Suddenly he frowned again, drawing his hand out from under Jean's to pull Jean's sleeve backward. “What happened to you?”  
  
An electric jolt of terror shot through Jean. He hadn't realized Kaufman had left so many bruises on his wrists, but now he could see them all too clearly, dark and ugly on his skin. Marco turned his hand over, frowning at the purpling marks, the ghosts of Kaufman's fingers. “Jean, are you okay?”  
  
“It's nothing,” he stammered, praying that Marco wouldn't feel his heartbeat pounding through his wrists. He hastily pulled away from Marco's grasp and rolled his sleeve back down. “Just a run-in with a nasty pickpocket.”  
  
Marco didn't look convinced, so Jean added, “We got him in the end though! I'm hoping I’ll get a bonus from helping to catch the bastard. Hey, we've both been through worse just during training. Stop looking so worried.”  
  
“I can't help but worry about you,” Marco said, eye still fixed on Jean's incriminating wrist.  
  
“Ha, aren't I the one who's supposed to be worried about you?” Even before he finished speaking he knew it was the wrong thing to say. Not for the first time, Jean damned his tendency to blurt out what he was thinking before actually thinking. Marco's face first fell, then firmed into an expression of absolute stillness.  
  
“It's late, and I'm pretty tired. I’m going to bed. Goodnight, Jean.” He pushed his chair backward with a startlingly loud scrape and retreated to their bedroom.  
  
Jean could have punched himself.  
  
He rinsed off his dishes with gritted teeth. He wanted nothing more than to curl up at Marco's side, but he was terrified that Marco wouldn't want him there. He took his time getting ready for bed, shamefully hoping that Marco would already be asleep by the time he entered the bedroom.  
  
From the way Marco tensed up and relaxed again when Jean quietly pushed open the door, he wasn't asleep. But he pretended to be, lying still on his side, facing away from Jean's half of the bed. He surely knew that Jean knew he was pretending.  
  
Jean crept beneath the covers and gently pressed his forehead against Marco's back. “I'm sorry,” he more mouthed than whispered into his nightshirt.  
  
If Marco heard, then he made no indication of it. Jean told himself that just his warmth against him was enough.  
  
-  
  
The next morning, Jean left for work while Marco was still sleeping. He couldn't bear to wake him up – sleep was one of the few times his face was untroubled these days – and tiptoed through the apartment getting ready.  
  
He pulled on the maneuver gear with ease borne of practice, despite not having used it since that day in Trost. Strangely enough, he found his thoughts straying to his fellow trainees of the 104th. He couldn't find it in him to call those of them who had followed Eren into the Scouting Legion stupid or suicidal anymore, not after he had experienced the terror of seeing the walls crumble firsthand.  
  
He might have even been tempted to join himself, if not for the fact that Marco needed him. And even if he knew by now that the inner walls were not safe, he figured Marco's chances were still a hell of a lot better within Wall Sina than anywhere else.  
  
He tightened the last of his straps and headed out the door. The barracks weren't too far of a walk away from their apartment, and soon enough he saw the rest of his squad in the courtyard where they were lining up to receive their assignment for the day.  
  
“Late again today?” Hitch raised her eyebrows at him. “You know that doesn't look good on your evaluations, Jean. Of course, our dear Dennis is late too so it doesn't actually matter.”  
  
“Morning to you too, Hitch,” Jean scoffed. “Is he hungover again?”  
  
“Probably,” Hitch replied, fiddling with a lock of her hair. “The life of a squad leader is hard, you know. All that constant partying takes a lot out of you. Not just anyone can handle it.”  
  
“Disgraceful,” Marlowe muttered half to himself.  
  
“Take our resident honor student. I doubt he has the _stamina_ to handle it,” Hitch smirked at Marlowe, but it was too early in the morning for him to take the bait. He just threw her a glare and returned to cleaning his rifle.  
  
Annie flicked bored, half-lidded eyes towards the rest of them before retreating back into whatever private thoughts she occupied herself with.  
  
Eventually Dennis turned up, the haggard circles under his eyes suggesting that their guess was right. He rambled through their orders, Jean only half-listening as usual.  
  
“All right, that's it for today. Dismissed.”  
  
The squad departed for their routine patrol. Hitch nattered away to Jean about the latest scandalous gossip among their fellow new recruits, and he barely remembered to nod and grunt in all the appropriate places.  
  
“What's with you today?” Hitch nudged him with her shoulder when he failed to respond to a particularly witty comment she made. “Boyfriend make you sleep on the couch?”  
  
Jean pulled a face. “That's none of your business,” he grumbled, but Hitch knew him well enough to not take his surface hostility seriously.  
  
“Oh, I guessed right, didn't I?” She patted his arm in mock sympathy. “Bah, you'd think the guy would treat you better considering all the shit you put yourself through for him.”  
  
She stopped in her tracks and whirled around to face him when he made no reply. “Wait. Don't tell me he doesn't know about your, er, extracurricular activities.”  
  
“Hitch, seriously,” Jean hissed, “shut up.”  
  
She pouted, twirling a finger through her curls. “Come on, Jean. If there's anyone you can talk to about this, you know it's me, right?”  
  
Jean just threw a meaningful glance over his shoulder, to where Marlowe seemed to be listening with far too much interest.  
  
“Come on, he has no idea what we're talking about. The very thought would make his pure mind burst into flames.”  
  
“You can't actually think I’m that stupid,” Marlowe stepped closer to the two of them.  
  
“Actually, I can,” Hitch retorted.  
  
“Hitch, leave him alone.” Jean had never shared Hitch's enthusiasm for provoking Marlowe. Maybe the Jean that hadn't yet lived through the Battle of Trost would have, just like he had clashed with Eren for his thoughtless idealism. But now Jean couldn't bring himself to put down Marlowe's dreams, whether out of sympathy or a sheer lack of energy.  
  
“You're no fun, Jean,” Hitch sighed, but she let off all the same. They continued their rounds in silence, as no one else in the squad besides Jean had much interest in talking to Hitch, and Marlowe and Annie were certainly not ones for idle chatter.  
  
Apprehending a purse-snatcher was the most exciting thing to happen that morning. After the adrenaline of running after him had died down, Jean found himself wallowing in his thoughts. He had been left with Marlowe to continue patrol while Hitch and Annie took the criminal back to a holding cell at headquarters.  
  
Did Marco suspect the truth? Jean reflected that it probably wasn't that hard to put two and two together; he had never told Marco just how much rent and Clara's services cost, but he had to know they weren't cheap. And coupled with the telltale marks on his skin, how late he had been coming home... sometimes, Jean was sure the evidence was written all over his face, and Marco was just holding back from saying anything.  
  
Truth be told, Jean was starting to feel like he was in too deep.  
  
“Jean, a word?” Marlowe startled him out of his brooding. At Jean's questioning glance, he continued. “You know I'm not as stupid as Hitch thinks I am. I know what you're up to, and I just wanted to say to you, I think it's a waste. You lived through Trost. I can tell you're a good soldier, surely there's no need for you to stoop to that level-”  
  
“And just what,” Jean cut him off, hot anger rising sharp in his chest, “is it that you think I’m doing?”  
  
Marlowe gave him a disapproving and almost pitying frown before leaning in to discreetly whisper, “I know you're trying to sleep your way up the ladder.”  
  
Jean shoved him away. “Fuck you, Marlowe,” he spat. “Don't ever say bullshit like that again. You've got the wrong idea.”  
  
“I'm saying this for your own good,” Marlowe protested. “Even if it helps in the short term, you won't be taken seriously once you build that kind of reputation. And I know that you're an honorable man. I want you as an ally when the time comes to clean out this rotten organization.”  
  
“You don't know shit about me,” Jean snarled. Marlowe had the gall to look sad in response.  
  
“I just think it's a shame. You've been influenced too much by the likes of Hitch.”  
  
“Badmouthing me behind my back? That's not very nice of you, Marlowe.” As if summoned, Hitch returned with Annie in tow. “I expect better from the man who'll reform the whole Police.”  
  
“Then I'll say it to your face. I don't want scum like you corrupting Jean and implanting your messed up ideals in his head. Unlike you, Jean has more to offer humanity than just his bed.”  
  
Hitch beat Jean to his angry retort. “Is it that bad to want to live? To want you and your loved ones to be safe, huh? Don't you dare judge Jean or me with that self-righteous attitude, you prick. We all do what we have to do to get by.”  
  
Jean blinked, taken aback. Even Annie looked impressed. They had never seen Hitch so emotional about anything, and she was positively livid now, her usually indifferent eyes narrowed into hard slits as she stared Marlowe down despite being a head shorter than him.  
  
Marlowe just gave an irritated snort and turned his head away. “Well, no one can say I didn't try. Let's just finish our rounds.”  
  
“Thanks,” Jean said it quietly, bumping Hitch's shoulder with his own.  
  
“Anytime, honey,” she replied with sarcastic cheeriness, though Jean suspected it was a front to cover that deeper, painful emotion she had let slip earlier. No matter; they respected each other's boundaries when it came down to it, and Jean wouldn't push.  
  
Still, her prior offer to talk was tempting, given the turmoil that had raged inside Jean's head since his session with Kaufman and Muller yesterday.  
  
“Hey, Hitch,” he began, his voice small. “How do you live with it?”  
  
She acknowledged his words with an uncharacteristic serious face. It was startling how much older she looked like this, her mouth drawn and unmoving.  
  
“Like I said to that asshole, we do what we gotta do. The trick is to not let it define you. And your reasons are probably nobler than mine, anyway.”  
  
Jean gave a hollow laugh. “I don't think 'noble' is the word I’d choose.”  
  
“Would you prefer 'stupidly self-sacrificing' then? Or maybe 'tragically self-flagellating'? Well, it's not like I can understand, anyway. I’m just a coward who wants to stay alive, and I’ve learned to be all right with that.”  
  
“At least you're honest about it, otherwise I doubt I’d put up with you,” Jean said with a smirk, trying to dispel the serious mood.  
  
“Oh Jean, you say the nicest things,” and Hitch's usual mask was back on to match Jean's, and they returned to their usual meaningless banter for the rest of the patrol.


	3. Chapter 3

Marco was beginning to feel like he was losing his mind.

There were so many little things, things that would have been inconsequential on their own, but added up to make a picture that Marco couldn't (or wouldn't) see. The pieces of the puzzle kept whirling round his mind – the marks on Jean's wrist that he had been so quick to hide with an obvious lie, the scent of a fresh shower on him, how late he had been coming home. He knew that there was a conclusion to be drawn somewhere, and even had a good idea of what that conclusion would be, but he just, he _couldn't_.

Marco had once found it endlessly endearing that Jean was such a pathetically bad liar. Now it only served to torment him, as he kept replaying Jean's line about the pickpocket over and over in his mind: the way his eyes darted away from Marco's, the sudden blush that stained his skin, the way he tried too hard to make his voice casual.

He chalked it up to his own paranoia, induced by the cabin-fever of sitting around their apartment all day with nothing meaningful to occupy his time. He was being delusional, his mind was just playing tricks on him to pass the time, the Titan must have taken a bigger chunk of his head than he thought, anything but the idea he refused to give voice to even in the privacy of his thoughts.

Jean simply couldn't be cheating on him, because without Jean, he'd have nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The very thought made it hard to breathe, made Marco's chest constrict as tight as it was in the Titan's jaws again. No, Jean couldn't leave him. They had made a promise to each other to live out their lives together in the inner walls, hadn't they? Even if that promise was a bitter pill for Jean to swallow now, it was Marco's lifeline, his only anchor, and Jean was not the kind of man to break his word. 

Marco rubbed his hand across his eyes, forcing himself to turn his thoughts away. There had to be something he could do to occupy his time and distract himself. He could finish the letter he had been meaning to send his family, he could practice his penmanship, look for employment.

The very thought of those obligations made Marco's skin crawl, and it was only the alternative of worrying about Jean that led him to finally open the desk drawer and pull out the draft of the letter he had been working on.

He had sent his family exactly one letter since the Battle of Trost, which he had dictated to Jean to write for him. He had told his parents that he survived, with some minor injuries, and was now in the Inner City with Jean, just as they had planned.

He didn't tell them that he lost an arm and an eye and most of his will to fight, or that only Jean now numbered among the Military Police. It wasn't technically a lie, Marco told himself. He just wasn't ready for the mother and father and siblings and cousins who had sent him off with such bright eyes and high hopes to know that he was now a broken shell of a man.

He had expected Jean to protest, with his usual desire for honesty, but in those first few weeks Jean had treated him like spun glass, had acquiesced to his every whim. Truth be told, Jean had never really gone back to how he was before, when he would challenge Marco just as much as Marco would challenge him.

His parents had sent back a relieved reply. Even in remote Jinae, news about the devastation of Trost had spread. They were glad that he was unharmed, so proud that their boy had made it into the top ten. They asked, with the lack of subtlety typical of Jinae farmers, when he would be able to bring them to live with him within Wall Sina. 

Marco dipped the pen into the inkwell and pressed it against the page. He knew he had to tell them eventually. How could he even start to put it into words? _Dear Mother and Father, I'm crippled and half-blind and living like a kept woman thanks to my boyfriend, who I haven't been able to really talk to in months. How was the harvest this year?_

The ink dripped out of the pen in his hesitation, leaving a large blot on the page that was already full of scratched-out sentences. He grit his teeth and set pen to paper again.

He got as far as writing _Dear Mother and Father_ before he had to stop. The sight of his childish left-handed script filled him with both irritation and shame. He was supposed to have been the brightest in Jinae, the first from his village to make it into the Police. He simply couldn't send this letter home, not when it looked like it had been penned by his baby sister. In a place like Jinae, a letter from the Inner Walls would be passed through many pairs of hands and eyes before it ever even reached his parents. He could just imagine the smug faces of those who had told his parents he'd never make it back. How they would shake their heads at each other, scoffing over those overly ambitious Bodts who'd dared to let their son leave the honest living of a farmer and get himself as good as killed.

He folded the page back along its old, worn creases, not even caring about how the blot bled through both sides. He couldn't shut it away again fast enough. 

Marco missed his family, truly. He missed his father and mother and older sister and younger brother. He even missed his youngest sister, who had not yet been weaned when he left for training. By now she would have already learned to talk and walk, and probably remembered nothing about the second child of their family. He wanted so badly for them to be safe and comfortable, and he did want to bring them into Wall Sina with him, but-

But it cost money to move four people into Wall Sina, even with a connection, definitely more than the pittance of a pension he got and the money Jean left for him that Marco refused to think of as an allowance. And Marco couldn't bring himself to ask, not when Jean already gave him so much with no conditions.

As he saw it, his only recourse was to find the job he had been promising Clara he was working towards. But his writing was still slow and cramped, and nowhere near the level that anyone would be willing to pay a clerk for.

Suddenly, he felt suffocated in the house. A quick glance outside the window told him it was already well into the afternoon, the sun starting to sink low into the sky. Some fresh air would do him good, he hoped, and he hastily pulled on a jacket and all but fled from their apartment, no destination other than out on his mind.

The neighbor who had scolded him a few days ago only gave him a reproachful glare from her balcony as he passed her. He had heard Jean yelling at her before heading off for work this morning, while he pretended to be asleep in their bed. Marco had expected to feel vindicated, but instead he just felt empty. He couldn't even defend his own honor; he had to let his boyfriend do it for him.

Still, she left him alone now, and he was grateful for the silence if nothing else. 

He found himself traveling the familiar path to market, but the stalls were long since sold out and closed, and anyway, Jean had already brought home plenty of food of higher quality (and likely price) than Marco would have bought. At a loss for what to do, Marco idly kicked at discarded vegetables in the dust. 

He wanted to see Jean. He wanted so badly to talk to him and lay all his worries bare, reforge the easy intimacy of before. 

On a whim, he decided to visit the Military Police headquarters. He could meet Jean's coworkers and friends, though that label only seemed to apply to that Hitch girl he had mentioned a few times. He could see Annie again; that would be nice. Maybe being in that building would dispel the last ghosts of the impossible dream that still lodged in his heart. 

Well, that would be hoping too much. But it was worth a try, anyway. Who knew? It could be that the Police might even have use of a one-armed bookkeeper.

He had never been to the building before, but it was tall and imposing enough to be easy to spot from a distance. The streets he walked were unfamiliar to him, despite having lived here in Stohess for almost three months now. Still, he felt more alive than he had in a long time as he embarked on his little adventure. 

Sunset was already well underway by the time he reached the building, but he figured with how late Jean had been coming home, he'd still be there. Perhaps they could walk home together. Marco almost smiled at the thought. They could even have a date of sorts, finally taking some time to explore the city they only nominally called home.

The courtyard was surprisingly empty from where he could see it, and less well kept than he would have expected. Jean had mentioned that the Military Police were just as lazy and corrupt as all the rumors suggested, but still, Marco had hoped... never mind. He hardly had the right to complain now, when Jean's police salary was what kept him living in such physical comfort.

He wandered about the grounds, idly looking for Jean or Annie. No one paid him much heed, as the soldiers presumably on watch hardly looked attentive. Still, he didn't think it wise to just go up to them and ask where Jean's squad was.

He found himself in some kind of storage area, surrounded by warehouses. In hindsight, it was rather silly of him to have thought that he'd be able to find Jean here on his own – he could still be out on patrol, for all he knew. Just as he was getting ready to give up and head home, a flurry of motion caught in the corner of his eye.

That was Jean, walking with what looked like a high ranking officer, judging from the stripes on his jacket. Marco fought the urge to jump out and greet him, as his officer probably wouldn't be impressed, so he ducked behind a warehouse to wait for the officer to leave.

Jean and the officer stopped in front of one of the larger buildings, talking for a bit in front of the open door. Then the officer grabbed Jean by the shoulders and leaned down to kiss him.

Marco was riveted to the spot. He wanted to turn away but his head wouldn't move. His heart felt like it had stopped in his chest. He watched with an unblinking eye as Jean unmistakably kissed him back, leaning his entire body into the man's touch. The man grinned and pulled Jean into the warehouse after him. 

Marco stood there in the shadows staring at the closed door until the sun's last rays had left the sky. As if from a great distance, he absently thought that he should return home. He retraced his steps, walking past the empty courtyard, the closed market, not giving himself time to think.

And he had been so sure he was being paranoid. 

He reached the apartment with the image still burned into his mind. How easily Jean had followed that man, let him pull him along without a single sign of resistance. 

Marco sat at the dining table. He surprised himself with how numb he felt. His hand felt impossibly heavy where it rested on the table, as if it could sink through the solid wood and he briefly, wildly wished that the earth would just open up and swallow him whole.

He had no idea what to say to Jean. Some foolish part of him wanted to hear that it had all just been a big misunderstanding. But what he had seen had been as clear as day, and Marco wasn't the idealistic, naive little boy that could convince himself otherwise anymore.

Where would he even go if Jean left him? Maybe it would be better if he just went on as if the day had never happened, and let Jean continue to keep him out of whatever misguided sense of charity drove him to do so. In some ways, he supposed the whole thing was inevitable. To say that Jean must have grown tired of him at this point was a given. He wasn't remotely the same man he had been, inside or out. Even without considering the hideous scars and sheer absences of flesh that marred him, his heart had become a twisted, broken thing. How could he have ever expected love to survive under such conditions?

All too soon, Marco heard the jingle of keys from their door. He froze in his seat as Jean let himself in.

“Hey,” Jean said, after a too-long moment where both of them expected the other to speak first. But Marco's throat was too tight to even breathe. He looked around, probably for the food that Marco had never gotten around to making. “Did you eat already? Or did you want to go out for dinner?”

He realized that Jean was wearing the collar of his shirt buttoned up all the way. He never did that. 

Marco remembered to blink when Jean bent over him in concern after he failed to respond. “I'm not hungry,” he stammered.

Jean's face took on that strange, careful expression that Marco had come to dread so much. He pulled out the chair behind him and sat down without his eyes leaving Marco's face. “Is everything all right? Was it the neighbors again?” He reached out to take Marco's hands in his own.

Marco jerked his hands away from the touch. “Don't, don't touch me,”he spoke in just a whisper but Jean flinched as if struck. “I know about it, Jean,” and it slipped out of his mouth before he could even control himself. 

All the blood drained out of Jean's face, and his still-outstretched hand fell to the table.

“You don't have to touch me,” Marco continued. He had already thrown himself over the cliff; now there was only the fall. “I know that it's hard to even look at me.”

“Marco, that's not true-” Jean regained his voice, but it was strained. His eyes were wide and wet, and Marco's chest managed to ache a little more.

“We don't have to keep doing this. I know we made a promise, but things change. I understand.” 

The words had weighed down on Marco for so long that it was almost a relief to get them out, even if they tore him to shreds on the way there. They hung heavy in the air as Jean struggled and failed to blink back his tears.

“What are you trying to say?” Jean choked out.

“I don't think this is working. Us,” and the strange emptiness that had kept Marco so numb and detached about the whole thing departed. This was really happening, it wasn't just another nightmare or paranoid fantasy about Jean leaving him. His throat closed around whatever else he was going to say. He stared at the point on the table next to Jean's hand. He couldn't bear to look at his face.

“Marco, I love you.” Why did Jean's voice have to be so desperate? Marco had no way to respond to that. 

He steeled his resolve. This would be better for Jean in the long run – he could have the future that he was always meant to. As for himself, well, maybe losing his reliance on Jean would force him to get going on everything he had been putting off. To find the person he had used to be.

“And I love you too, Jean, but we can't keep doing this.” Marco felt his voice break on Jean's name, but he kept going. He had to be strong for the both of them. “I'll find a job, I’ll leave the apartment as soon as I find a new place, I can pay you back for rent and treatment once I get the money-”

“No, you don't have to do that,” Jean was openly crying now. “Please don't mention money, don't even think about money. I... understand, if you can't stand living with me anymore. But please, stay here. It's safe and it's the best place for you and I’ll... I'll live in the barracks.” 

He rose from his seat, entire body shaking and leaning on the table for support. “Then I'll leave now.” He clenched his fists, steadied himself to stand up. Marco watched him walk to the door, praying that he wouldn't turn back and make this harder. 

He turned back. “Marco, I’m sorry,” he said, and stepped out the door.


End file.
